Republic Commando: Tip of the Spear
by metalguru
Summary: [Republic Commando and RC:Hard Contact] They are the elites of the clone wars. Known only by their numbers, they are expendable, but they have been trained to fight to the death and accomplish missions beyond the capabilities of ordinary infantry. Ch.2 up
1. Default Chapter

Delta Squad is from the video game Star Wars: Republic Commando. Omega Squad is from the book Star Wars: Republic Commando - Hard Contact. Echo Squad are my fan characters. Star Wars, the Jedi, and all original characters created by George Lucas are property of LucasArts and Twentieth Century Fox.

* * *

**Star Wars: Republic Commando**

**Tip of the Spear**

_A voice from the past…_

"Don't you have dreams?"

"I take a medication that blocks out all nocturnal images."

"No, Darman. What I mean is, don't you have any plans for the future? Like what you'll do after the war?"

"As long as I live, I'll defend the Republic. That's what I've been taught, and that's what I'll do."

"Don't you have a family, a home, someplace to return to?"

"I was created and trained on Kamino. I always thought of my Instructor as my father figure. So I guess you could say my squad is my family."

"Oh Darman…_Darman… darman…

* * *

_

"Darman!"

Republic Commando One-One-Three-Six, known to his squad mates as Darman, snapped out of his daze to the sound of his sergeant's voice. His mind had lulled off to memories as he worked the demolitions, performing by reflex actions he had done a million times before since basic demolitions back on Kamino.

"Demos ready?"

"Just a second." Darman flipped the firing trigger into place on the breaching charges, ensuring that the Monroe effect of the blast would open the door and take out anyone beyond without harming the two squads of commandos currently covering him.

"You're slipping, Darman. We're already three seconds behind schedule."

The comment wasn't meant to be hateful, only a reminder that the commandoes had a job to do, and every second counted. A third squad was moving towards the main power station, necessary to destroying the Trandoshan base which had proven resilient to the efforts of the Republic. Many floors above Darman, a large force of regular Clone troopers was now assaulting the base, keeping the main force occupied while the elite commandos slipped inside and ripped apart the guts of the base.

Darman let the firing trigger loose. It clicked in response, then started rotating with a whirring sound. "Fire in the hole!" Darman shouted, as he moved away from the door and returned to his place in Omega squad. Niner and Striker, the Sergeants/Grenadiers for Omega and Echo squads, currently holding their places at the front of their respective squads on each side of the doorway, readied thermal detonators for the breach.

The firing trigger clicked home, igniting the plasma molecules holstered inside the charge. In an instant the locking mechanism on the doors was gone, and though they currently couldn't see it, on the other side of the door hot plasma fuel was shooting several meters in every direction, obliterating anyone or anything unfortunate enough to be caught on the other side.

The door responded immediately by opening, through which the commandos could hear blood-curdling screams and the sounds of melting metal. Some laser fire came through, but it was erratic and done in a panic. The guards were shooting for the sake of shooting, hoping that lady luck would pull their butts out of the fire, but their lack of discipline would cost them dearly.

A single Trandoshan guard ran through, screaming in agony as his body melted while he was still alive. Fi (RC 8015), the sniper for Omega squad, quickly put the guard out of his misery with a shot to the head.

Niner and Striker threw their thermal detonators into the doorway, the timers already ticking. "Throw! Two…Three…Four!" The detonators rolled across the floor, past melted bodies still burning, horrifying the guards still able to fight.

**BOOM!**

The detonators exploded, making an ear-splitting shockwave that would have ripped apart the ear drums of any man caught unprotected. However, the commandos' helmets came equipped with sound filters for such an occasion, and the Trandoshans were already dead.

The two squads moved to clear the next hallway, heading in with tight precision and perfect discipline, honed from years of training in the shooting houses of Kamino. Entering the hallway, they found it to be a straight route forward, a simple metal walkway with some large steel boxes scattered about in every which way, most likely from the detonators. Smoke filled the ceiling, from the plasma burns on the floor. But the plasma had been specially engineered by the best techno-brains in the Republic to only burn for a few seconds, then quickly cool into nothing more than ordinary rust, thereby protecting the secrets of the Republic and covering the tracks of commandos.

Omega squad took the left side of the formation while Echo took the right. They moved quickly, since they had a job to do, but also tactically, checking each body to ensure they could move on. The bodies of the Trandoshans that got hit by the plasma but not the detonators were still smoldering. The ones that did get hit by the detonators were, well, let's just say the clean-up crew would be scraping them off with paper towels.

"Omega Two clear."

"Omega Four clear."

"Echo Four clear."

"Echo Two clear."

"Omega Three clear"

"Echo Three clear."

"Omega is clear." shouted Niner. "Echo?"

Striker touched his com. "Echo Three, report in."

Echo Three, know by his squad mates as Val, echo's hacking expert, looked down into the eyes of a dead Trandoshan. Blue blood still oozed out of his neck, but his eyes were locked into a shocked gaze. He was young. The war was three years old now. Because of commando efforts on the Wookiee home planet, the ranks of the Trandoshan slave traders had been whiddled down to the point where they forced their youth to fight. This youth was just on the cusp of manhood. He was probably pretty good with a vibroblade and a blaster, having been taught early how to subvert others through violence. Val had learned all this through an extensive tour of duty on Kasshiya. He felt no remorse for killing Trandoshans, considering the way they treated Wookiees, but there was something about killing their youth that touched him in a very deep way.

"Echo?"

Striker turned towards Val.

"Echo Three! Val!"

Val snapped out of his thoughts and reported in.

"Echo Three clear!"

Striker walked straight up to Val and grabbed his helmet, switching over both their frequencies so only they could hear each other.

"I don't know what kind of _pissant_ outfit you were with before Echo, but you better stay on the ball or I will kick your…"

Niner watched as his fellow Sergeant gave his squad member an impromptu grilling, taking note of the time so that they didn't waste anymore bickering. They were already a minute behind schedule. Considering Delta squad's reputation, that squad was most likely already through the toughest defenses and well on their way to the power grid of the main power station. They would be radioing in shortly, most likely under heavy fire, and if Omega and Echo weren't in place, it would mean good commandos could possibly die in the line of duty while holding a position they're only supposed to be at for a few seconds.

It wasn't that Echo was a bad squad. Every squad member had seen loads of action for the past three years, since their first romp on Geonosis. It's just that organization-wise, Echo was the second youngest squad in the whole of the Republic. Squads were thrown together at random, built from the surviving members of other squads. Niner had gone through it. His very first squad was made up of himself and three other commandos with whom he had been with since birth. They had lived together, eaten together, trained together. When each of his squad mates were picked off one by one on Geonosis, Niner had found himself placed as Sergeant to four new squad mates, each the only survivors of other squads. There was no time for mourning, or to question the methods of his masters. Only the mission mattered. Echo was still getting its bearings, which was why it had been placed with Omega for this mission. They had a lot to live up too. The former Echo squad had all nobly sacrificed themselves to blow up a Trade Federation doomsday weapon. So far, they had done very well. But the toughest part was coming up.

"Niner." Fi's voice came over the com. Niner had sent him and Atin ahead to scout.

"Go ahead."

"Straight ahead is a lift. It's been shut off though. Atin's working on it, but he thinks the power's been cut." Atin was Omega squad's hacker/gear-head. He was always tinkering with a weapon or electronic device.

"Alright, we're moving up. Echo!"

All the members of Echo squad turned to look at him. Niner gave a motion to move forward, and the members of Echo complied.

They moved forward until they came to the lift, where Atin was messing around with the control panel. Atin turned to look at Niner.

"No go, Sarge. They've locked down the lift. There's no emergency power, stairs, or ladders for the shaft."

"Understood," Niner said, reaching for his utilities, "fast-rope."

"Fast rope." repeated Striker. Each member of Omega and Echo squad reached for their belts and pulled out a small device that looked like a cross between a harpoon pistolanda belt buckle. They all walked to the edge of the shaft and pointed their devices at different parts of the ceiling. Pushing a button on the side, the harpoon fired out, pulling along with it a white rope that looked like spider web. Upon impacting with the ceiling, the harpoon exploded into a large gob of the white webbing. The commandos hooked the belt buckles to their belts and pulled on the web to ensure a tight and rigid line.

Reassured that their lines would hold, each member stepped off the edge and slowly swung to a stop over the deep abyss below.

Atin reached into his utilities again and pulled out a small device that looked like an eyeball. He held it in his hand for a second before dropping it down into the shaft. Pressing a microchip to his helmet, half of his HUD (heads-up display) tuned into the camera on the eyeball. Green numbers added up, telling Atin how fast the camera was falling, how far it had fallen, and what angle the camera was pointing. Coming to the ground, it used an anti-gravity device to quickly cease its descent and hover in mid-air, checking around for any threats. Recognizing no immediate dangers, it sent back the information to Atin, who gave a thumbs-up to Niner.

"Ready?"

Each member of Echo and Omega gave thumbs-up to their Sergeants.

"Go!"

* * *

Thirteen years ago…

"Place your finger here, Mr. Fett, and the deal is sealed."

The DNA splicer instantaneously pricked the finger of Jango Fett, the infamous Mandalorian bounty hunter, releasing a tiny flow of blood.

"Ow."

The Praetorian soldier administering the exam gave him a look.

"The feared Jango Fett is afraid of a little needle?"

Jango removed his finger from the splicer and sprayed the puncture with a can of bacta, instantly plugging the wound with a new layer of healthy skin. He tossed it at the Praetorian, who fumbled the can, letting it hit the ground with a resounding clang.

"When you've hunted the apocalyptic tundra of Calouth or killed a Wookiee witch doctor and his warband alone with nothing but a stolen bowcaster and your wits, then, Praetorian, can you speak to me as an equal."

The Praetorian snorted out his nostrils.

_Nasty creatures_, _these Praetorians_, thought Jango. Praetorians were interesting anthropomorphic creatures from a world consisting entirely of savannah plains. They were the warrior class of a species known as the Roma. The Roma were cat-like creatures with bodies entirely covered in fur. Their most distinguishing feature was the massive horn coming out of their foreheads. The non-military Roma were sleek and, one could even say, cute. The Praetorians, however, looked like they had been thrown through a carbon-freezing chamber a few too many times. Their fur shot out in all different directions, and their eyes were bloodshot and psychotic.

But, their looks weren't the only reason Jango hated Praetorians. Centuries ago, when the Mandalorians were at the height of their power, one of their worst enemies they fought were the Praetorians. Many good Mandalorians lost their lives to Praetorians, and their descendents do not forget old wounds.

Jango, his task completed, headed towards the sliding doorway that led to the platform out over the swirling oceans of Kamino, where his ship Slave-1 sat docked.

"Leaving so soon, Jango?" asked Lama Su, a Kamino cloner and one of the heads of the secret project which Jango had been hired to partake in.

He grabbed his helmet off of a nearby table and proceeded to place it on.

"I'm a busy man. Places to go, people to kill. Call me when my son is born."

"Can we call on your services again, Jango.?" continued Lama-su.

Jango smirked under his helmet. "Of course. As long as the money is good."

"Don't listen to him. Mandalorians talk tough, but none of them have any balls anymore," cracked the Praetorian.

Jango instinctively started the reflex in his arm to fire a dart from his wrist launcher, but quickly decided against it. There was no need to prove himself to this bit of bantha poo-doo.

"Mandalorians are a proud race, just like the Roma."

Jango turned towards this new voice, one that was raspy and sinister. Entering the room was the Master Jedi from the Jedi council who had arranged and approved this entire venture, a man who called himself Master Sido-yas. He wore a full-body black cloak, covering his entire body except for face, which too was partially blocked by the hood.

"It's why I asked you both to come here. Before you leave, Jango, could I interest you in another proposition?"

Jango cringed at the thought. Mandalorians loved only warfare and freedom to do as they pleased. Kamino was nothing like Haka II, the jungle world where he had taken up shop for the last decade. The jungle was alive with thousands of creatures, millions of miles to hunt, and something that could kill you every single step of the way. It was a warrior's paradise. Kamino, however, was an ocean planet where the clouds never parted and the rain was almost unending. The cities of Kamino were artificial, soulless, and contained no dangers whatsoever, except for falling off the edge somewhere, whether by accident or on purpose. And being cooped up here for longer than he had too would probably push Jango to that point. But, money was money.

"What kind of proposition?"

The jedi master motioned to Lama. "Lama Su, would you call them in?"

Nodding, Lama Su pressed a few buttons on a nearby console, which opened about twenty doors around the large circular room. Jango noticed that a few droids had already removed all the medical equipment that had been in the room a few minutes ago. Now, a large table was present in the center of the room, overtop of which was a holographic projector.

Out of the doors walked about forty-five individuals, not of all of whom were human. Jango recognized several members of the congregation, due to the fact that he had crossed paths with some and swords with others. They were bounty hunters, assassins, rogue soldiers from brute armies, mercenaries, and elites. Not all of them were exactly happy to see each other, as a few started snarling at each other once they saw who else was there.

The Jedi cleared his throat and all turned to listen.

"Ladies and gentleman, you have all been asked here because you are the greatest warriors this galaxy has ever known. Some of you are wanted, by the Republic or other elements. Some of you are hated, by oppressed populaces or regions that demand your heads for war crimes." One of the gathered, a middle-aged man with slim figure and a hooked nose, shifted nervously. "None of this matters compared to the state of the galaxy. The Republic will soon fall into a time of great peril and darkness. A force will be needed to cease this advance. That is why we need leaders, and teachers, to train our soldiers. I have already amassed a force of officers to train our main army. You all, however, have been chosen for a different task. To train…elites. In exchange, all of your crimes will be wiped away. In the time to come, you may also find yourselves in positions of power. However, until then, you can never be allowed to leave Kamino."

"I'm out." One of the burlier men turned away and started walking back to the door he came out of.

"I said you were chosen," said the jedi in an angry voice, "I didn't say that choice was up to you."

He raised his hand in the air, clasped his hand into a fist. The man grabbed at his throat and began clawing as if he were being choked to death. The congregation watched in horror as the man's neck snapped in two. His body fell limp to the ground.

"Any other objections?"

The room was silent. Except for one man.

"I've done my part," Jango said. "Besides, I don't need any new rivals."

The jedi turned slowly towards Jango. He held out his hand directed at Jango's heart. He stayed motionless for a second, then relaxed and motioned towards the door.

"Go as you wish. One thing before you leave, Jango. Lama Su has told me you asked for a child, a son, to carry on your legacy. What if I could give you the chance to sow your legacy within more children? What would you say to that?"

To be continued…


	2. Training Daze

Republic Commando: Tip of the Spear

Chapter 2: Training Daze

* * *

Good morning.

I am the Advanced Recognition and Integration System for the Kamino Clone Manufacturing Database.

You may call me Aeris.

What are you looking for?

_Ppc386 docmilitdelta02/rpbspecwarcom /commandotrainingprocedure.pas/_

This file requires a level 7 access code.

Please enter password:

Welcome, Master Kenobi!

Accessing file…please wait…

_The following is the complete and uncensored record and analysis of the commando project's training procedures. The information contained within is Top Secret Level 5. All unauthorized access will be dealt with extreme prejudice._

Year One

Incubation Period. All subjects are born using a combination of collected DNA from primary donorone and meta-eggs, specially manufactured eggs designed to contain no genetic material of their donors. Upon gestation, electro-magnetic beads are used to remove any defects, as well as search for future problems. After the requisite nine months, when the bodies are finished incubating, hormones are added and the subjects are genetically modified so that their bodies age at twice the rate of a normal human. For the next three months, while the subjects remain in the incubators, subliminal suggestion and hypnosis is administered in order to increase brain function in preparation of training.

Year Two

Subjects are removed from their "wombs." Upon "birth" subjects are physically the equivalent of a three-year old human boy. Subjects quickly learn motor skills, including walking, within a three-month period. They are also immersed in language classes, where teachers indirectly teach subjects to talk and understand fluently military coda and RUD (Republic Universal Dialects). Upon completion of year two, subjects are prepared to enter preliminary education. Despite rigorous screening and testing, some human deficiencies are undetectable or impossible to prevent. Subjects exhibiting these tendencies are removed immediately from the program and placed in Liberatus.

Year Three

Subjects enter preliminary education. They are taught rudimentary mathematics and science to allow proctors ample time for selecting specialization. Between education, subjects play "games" designed to test cognitive reasoning, dexterity, hand-eye coordination, and reactions under pressure. Recruits without the mentai capacity to comprehend or keep within minimal commando standards, which are at a much higher level than ordinary troops, are removed and placed in Liberatus.

Year Four - Six

Subjects are now the physical equivalent of an eight-year old human. Subjects go through a constant daily regime of drilling, uniform designs and maintenance, and study the weapons that will be provided to them during the sixth year. They also experience primary education, where alien languages and customs are studied and advanced mathematics and sciencesare studied and understood. Starting with year four, commandos have been placed in enough training, but not enough advanced commando training, that should they not make minimum standards, they can be processed into the regular army in positions of NCOs or trooper captains, and not automatically sent to Liberatus.

Year Seven

Subjects have finally finished the human growing period known as puberty, and their bodies are now ready to be trained to the peak of perfection necessary for their futures. Subjects are placed in a constant cycle of physical activity and primary education. Muscles are built and toned, endurance and speed are tested, and subjects push themselves in running and swimming activities. At the end of the year, the subjects practice rucking with modified uniforms and are given basic martial arts in a number of disciplines. Subjects whose bodies do not remain within minimum commando standards, which at this point are far and above regular army standards, are processed for movement into the regular army as Captains.

Year Eight

Commandos spend this year learning their trades. Most subjects are moved back to 001, the rifleman designation, to hone their learned skills. However, a select few subjects who proved exceptional in building small machines and appliances are moved to demolitions. Several others who show interest in electronics and gadgetry are moved to Combat Technician training. Advanced training such as combat medicine, sniping, and Sergeant training, are also undertaken. Should a trooper fail out at this time, they cannot be placed in the regular army due to knowledge of some Special Forces intricacies. However, enough training has been put into them that they have much value to the Republic, and can be moved into supporting staff positions.

* * *

The electric door to the small, four-person bunk opened, and a tall Kamino worker who the three commando recruits had never seen before quickly entered without a word, pushing a commando inside. The recruit's face was no different than the other three commando recruits, except for one small detail, a black bar tattooed under his right ear. He stared straight ahead as the Kaminoan stepped up next to him and spoke.

"Recruits, this is your new sergeant."

Without another word, the Kaminoan left the way he came, the electric door closing quickly behind him.

The four recruits stared at each other for a moment, obviously sizing each other up. The only experience the recruits had with sergeants were the Drill Sergeants and aliens who made up their training staff, never one of their own. Except for that one bar, cosmetically there was no difference whatsoever between the four of them.

"Good morning. We four have been assigned the title of Whiskey squad. Are you rucksacks packed and ready? Any problems with your armor and weapons? Are you all rested, because we move at 0530. Anything? Nothing? Any questions?"

One of the commandos raised his hand.

"Number and your question." It was more a statement than a request.

"Oh Eight Two Four. Nap. Sarge, what's the op-order…"

"Hold up." The Sergeant stopped him in mid-sentence. "What did you say after your number? What was that word?"

"Nap, sarge?"

The Sergeant looked at the commando with equal parts confusion and disgust. He didn't understand what it meant. Was he being disrespectful? What exactly was he talking about? He had only been discharged from Sergeant training for one hour and already he had no idea what was going on. One of the first things he was taught was that the Sergeant always has the answer, even when he truly doesn't know.

"You don't have a name, Sarge?" The commando answered his question for him.

"No." The Sergeant responded quickly. "When did you start giving each other names?"

Another one of his commandos spoke up.

"Gunny over in Hotel Company called one of our brothers 'wormmeat.' We didn't know what it meant, but ever since then they've been calling him Wormmeat. Soon, everyone started naming each other."

"Do the Instructors know?"

"No, Sarge. It's only between us commandos."

The Sergeant frowned. Independent thought could undermine complete obedience, he had been taught. It was called "thinking for yourself, not for the Republic," and though he hadn't been told why, he was told he needed to suppress it. However, it did feel nice to be known by something other than a number. This was what the Instructors had told him was 'team-building', which was necessary for moral and the feelings of brotherhood that would keep them together even in the worst conditions.

"Alright," he finally spoke. "I'll allow it. But only between us." He placed his hand under his chin. "I need a name."

The final member of his squad finally spoke. "Usually, Sarge, brothers get named by things that happen to them."

"How'd you get your name?" The Sergeant pointed at Nap.

The other two laughed. "He fell asleep standing up while we were doing Podunk bar drills."

Sarge joined in with a chuckle. "You should be glad you didn't get rotated out."

"So, what have you done, Sarge?"

"Haven't gotten in trouble, that's for sure. Let me think… the only thing I can think of is that I graduated ninth in my Sergeant class. Ninth? What do you all think?"

"How 'bout Niner?"

* * *

Year Nine

Considered by the instructors to be the most brutal year of them all, training is increased to a level that would be considered inhuman in outside circles. Subjects are pushed to the brink of exhaustion, then are forced to go through their squad tactics and drills in live-fire exercises in a variety of environments artificially manufactured inside the Kamino domes. Environments include shooting houses, jungle, desert, underwater, low and zero gravity, and aboard starships. At the end of the year, squads are finalized. These squads are the ones the commandos will enter with in actual combat.

Year Ten

The final year. Squads are now competent enough to act on their own that the instructors leave them to their own devices. Squads work on deficiencies, as well as continue their educations and prepare for entrance into the fleet. Gene seeds are also collected for further studying and processing into more efficient commandos broods. In case of emergency, "Tenners" can be immediately cut loose from training and enter battle.

First Batch: 5000 ready commandos, filling 1250 squads.

Frequency: Three batches a year.

Would you like to know more? N

Thank you for accessing the database!

* * *

The Sergeant-at-Arms of the Commando project, Naugus Klim, stood at the railing of the viewing balcony of the Parade Ground, wearing his working fatigues. He looked out from the balcony to what could only be called an ocean of clone troopers. Below him, thousands of clone troopers paraded about in their respective companies, with a bit of red and yellow uniforms standing out ever so often amongst the sea of mostly white armor. Around him, the balcony was decked with banners, Republic flags and standards, and a few chairs for the limited amount of Republic Senators and Jedi who would show up for the 'graduation' ceremony. From there, a sixteenth of them would head out to Geonosis, the rest would head to Coruscant for further processing and then off to the warzones and battlefields around the galaxy until either the war ended, or…

"See anything interesting?" a sultry voice spoke up behind him.

Naugus turned to see Magilene, a female member of an alien race he couldn't name. At least, her body had a female shape according to human standards. Her body was sleek, curvy, and tone. It was also covered completely in reptilian scales. Her eyes were slits, with bright yellow snake-like eyes peering out. She had no hair on her body, and her scales operated as pseudo-clothes.

"I see you watching the regulars almost every day now." She strutted up next to him along the railing.

"They interest me." He rubbed his fingers through the first few hairs of his new beard. He was being cycled out after this run due to his age, which meant these were his final days in a long and illustrious career as one of the very few Republic Space Marines, an elite but very rarely used organization long overshadowed by the Jedi.

Magilene spit in disgust. "Ha! Every time I see them, they're marching or drilling. When do they train for the things that matter? This is an army, not a day camp!"

"You don't give them enough credit."

"They don't deserve any. Did you hear they're sending the commandos out with the infantry? We go to all this work, so a bunch of politicians can send them to get slaughtered with the cattle down there!"

"Not if my commandos have anything to say about it."

"Well, that goes without saying."

"Still, Magilene," the crusty old sergeant wrinkled his brow, "like you said, commandos aren't infantry. Our boys can't win this war alone. We need the boots, the regulars, to perform the normal tasks of an army. Without them, the commandos are just a wrecking ball."

Magilene was quiet, allowing his words to sink in.

"Still, I worry about them."

"Me too. Me too."

They both stared off at the regulars, still marching, still drilling, a million faceless soldiers born to fight, and, if needs be, to die. It was their purpose, the reason why they were born. But, did it even matter that maybe, just maybe, beneath those faceless helmets and endless ranks… that they were humans?

_To be continued…_


End file.
